


That More Tacit Approval

by Diminua



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:49:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 17,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diminua/pseuds/Diminua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D/s AU. James Bond is submissive, with trust issues. Q's a new man, liberal with a lower case l, but he's still a Dominant, and he knows what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Decoder Ring

Some people claim that subs make better agents because they don’t question orders. Q supposes it’s an interesting theory if you ignore pernickety things like statistical fact (averaged out over an annual period there is no material difference in mission success or survival rate along the s/D//m/f axis). 

Not to mention the wild statistical anomaly that is James Bond. A man whose eyes light up when handed a briefcase containing enough explosive to blow the roof off a small building.

‘If all goes according to plan you shouldn’t actually need this.’ Q reminds him. ‘It’s meant as a last resort. Not a first option.’

‘If it all goes according to plan.’ Bond repeats, wondering whether Q thinks he lets prescribed plans go to hell purely to annoy his Quartermaster when actually, that’s just the bonus. There is something peculiarly enjoyable about Q’s annoyance. It almost reminds him of M’s. His M, who had grumbled endlessly but given that more tacit approval. Besides, when a man is ordered to behave like what he isn’t and times are not changing as fast as they could be, it’s hardly a cause for complaint if he occasionally overdoes it a bit. 

‘A lot.’ Q corrects him, voice taking on that crisp edge that makes Bond sit up and pay attention, aware that he has drifted off into other thoughts. ‘There’s absolutely no need for all this beating of chests and destruction of expensive equipment.’ 

‘We’ll see.’ Bond replies, smiling, and tries to palm a small decoder ring off Q’s desk. Not because he wants one, just to prove he can. 

He’s chosen a good time for the theft, with Mallory in the branch and Q naturally territorial, keen to make sure the alpha male isn’t using his status to intimidate. It’s a fairly open secret amongst the subs in the building that Mallory had tried to top Q into line the first time they met, way back before either of them were in the exalted positions they are now.

Q, being who he is, had just smiled and murmured. ‘It’s the hair isn’t it?’ And, since Mallory had not wanted to be reported and booked for a three week refresher course in equality and diversity policy, Q had got his budget or equipment or whatever it was he was asking for. 

Three weeks wouldn’t have made a dent anyway. Mallory is as old school as they come. 

Q, of course, is very much not old school, but there’s still an easy arrogance about the way he calls Bond back just at the moment he turns to leave. Just three words, a hand held out for the missing object, and something resigned yet amused in the face behind the glasses. 

‘I think not.’ 

Bond tries to meet the gaze head on, the picture of injured innocence. 

‘One.’ Q says, slowly. ‘Two.’ Voice very level and even, utterly sure of itself. Bond has always had a thing for voices. ‘Three.’ 

Bond cracks at four. There’s no point in holding out. It’s not as if there’s any interesting punishment Q can exact. 

‘Good.’ Q says. ‘Thank you 007.’ Long fingers fold around the metal as it’s placed into his palm. ‘Take care out there.’

Q drops the decoder into a small drawer with other odds and ends – fuse wire, pencils, spent bullet cartridges, key blanks – just as Mallory appears at his elbow and nods after the disappearing figure of 007. ‘And exactly what was that about do you think?’ He asks. 

‘He’s simply seeing what he can get away with.’ Q shrugs, dismissing the subject. Not because it isn’t interesting – Bond is proving a challenge and Q adores a challenge – but because he already knows this conversation, and any subsequent conversations on the same topic, will only leave Mallory more confused.

Mallory’s type is.. straightforward would probably be the nicest way of putting it; affectionate, adoring, plump and pretty. Q’s not sure there’s actually anything wrong with that. It might even be preferable from certain points of view. Much easier to earn Mallory’s considerable indulgence – silk flimsies, vintage wines and lunch at Harvey Nicks – than Q’s unpredictable interest. 

Perhaps he’s picky. His mother always insisted he was. Making life difficult for himself. 

It never seemed to occur to her that maybe an easy life was the last thing he ever wanted.

James deliberately doesn’t glance back at Q before he leaves the branch. He likes his independence and he’s not seeking Q’s approval. To prove it he drives himself to London City, although it means one of the works’ drivers will have to bring the vehicle back for Q’s latest round of modifications. 

The thought of the mild exasperation on Q’s face sets up a warm fire in James’ belly that he knows is pointless. As pointless as his earlier fascination with Q’s technique for getting him to behave. There could never have been any follow through. 

There had been a period in James’ life – before MI6 and even a little after – when he had enjoyed being disciplined. Put on his knees, tied up, even caned on occasion. 

The fantasy is still appealing, but the attempt hasn’t gone well in a while. 

Training and experience have overwritten all James’ natural instincts. He can’t trust any more. Last time he had tried it – Karl, the man’s name was, taller than Bond and almost as strong - he had set off some sort of flashback. One minute he was ok, nerve ends alight and buzzing, and the next he had gone insane. Struggling, kicking. 

Which is interesting because when he’s actually in enemy hands he’s like ice. Just his hammering heart to betray his very real terror.

He hadn’t even tried to communicate, rules and words meaningless in the context he believed himself in. Just struggled free like a mad thing and lashed out.

Curious that a man who has killed without compunction can still feel bad about the wet crunch of an innocent nose breaking under his fist. Ache inside when he thinks how Karl had fled rather than belt him back. Even had the decency not to press charges, said it was his own fault for getting James that deep when he clearly wasn’t ready. Careless.

Which is a long stroll down memory lane, all the way to the airport, to come to the conclusion that although he likes being bossed by Q, there’s no point even thinking of more. 

Except, of course, as fantasy, saved for the hotel room in Luxembourg and the ridiculous bed, wide enough to sleep three, a divan with a padded headboard where he would have preferred bars, something to wrap his hands around in the absence of tethers. He thinks about Q punishing him for his earlier cheek, tied up and blindfold, face pressed into the pillow. A belt - skinny as he is Q must wear a belt – wrapped in Q’s hand, wielded with the efficiency he does everything, marking but not damaging skin and muscle, overwriting old scars. 

James bites into the pillow to smother the sound of his need, fingers scraping over the smooth texture of the headboard as he tries to cling. He ruts against the sheets at Q’s – fantasy Q’s – command, imagining being watched by a man whose lips quirk up at the left when he’s pleased but who is otherwise in complete control, waiting patiently for James to come so that he can have him once he’s finished, languid and still tethered, still vulnerable.

James is wrecked after, but he would struggle to his knees if Q ordered it using the voice James has never heard from him. The one Mallory tries to abuse and that so much of his training has been designed to combat, that sizzles down his spine and makes his body ready itself to obey before he can suppress it. 

He can’t quite envisage it from Q, but he’s too pleasantly sated to let that small thing frustrate him. Instead he rolls onto his back, away from the mess he has made, and settles himself for sleep.


	2. Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next few days are as quiet as it gets. And then it isn't, again.

The next few days are as quiet as it gets in Q branch. Bond is in the negotiating phase of the mission, suave and martini drinking, standing very straight and wearing the mask that must surely be more familiar to him by now than his own self. Q wonders what it would take to make him drop it completely, have him raw and unpretending against Q’s skin.

These are not appropriate thoughts for work, and so Q deliberately focusses away from the mission, catches up on other tasks while he has the chance. He spends hours modifying Bond’s car, persuades Mallory to approve a slight overspend on surveillance equipment, attends a presentation by one of the junior chemists about a test for opiates that can be run in field conditions and details the weapons team to put together another briefcase, since he strongly suspects there is not the slightest possibility of Bond bringing the prototype back in one piece. 

It feels right, being in charge of this brilliant unit, all-absorbing. It’s where he’s meant to be. 

Proud as he is, he still decides to go home at a reasonable hour to spend time with the cats for a change. Not that the cats particularly care. They spend most of their time asleep, one atop the other, generally on the back of the sofa; the ginger one only looking up occasionally as if astonished to find Q still lives there, and then poking his brother in the ear with his nose to wake him up to see the strange thing for himself. 

This of course is why he has the two, so they can generally get along without him, but he does eventually get bored of being merely tolerated and opens a packet of hula hoops to play with, rolling them singly across the coffee table for the cats to chase. Erebus is far more active in the game but only Tychon actually finds them palatable, holding one between his paws and licking it until it dissolves. 

Q puts more over the tips of his fingers, like rings, and lets the cat lick at those as well, stroking his back with his free hand until Erebus comes over to see why his brother is getting all the attention. Q slides down on the sofa a bit so there’s more room for them – they can sprawl up his chest as well as over his lap – and plans dinner. Grilled salmon and maybe a glass of white wine if he can be bothered to go out and buy it. 

He runs himself a bath after, lounges extravagantly in it for an hour listening to music and thinking, in an abstract sort of way, about the gap between each note and whether if that gap were filled with sound and the notes left blank, it would still sound like music, in the same way a picture negative is still a picture. Then he starts wondering about the s/D axis and why other animals, such as cats, don’t split into subs and Doms (his mother preferred the word ‘top’, but Q thinks it implies a sort of superiority he’s not sure he approves of). Is it, as popular theory goes, that animal brains just aren’t complex enough, that they are mating rather than having sex. 

Sex. Q thinks about sex. Having someone in this bathroom up against the wall. Someone in the tub with him, warm and biddable under Q’s hands as he tilts their (or rather his, Q has no fantasies involving women) head back, Q’s long fingers clamped in those short blond strands. He palms himself lazily, imagining it’s somewhere else entirely, that there’s a muscular back and a nicely shaped arse pressed up against himself, the blond letting Q take his weight and rut against him, wrap his free hand carefully around the man’s throat and just hold him there, vulnerable. 

In his fantasy the other man is aroused but too well behaved to ask when he’ll get off himself. Whether he’ll get off. Q can still see him thinking it. It makes him smile. 

‘If you’re good.’ He murmurs, and for once Bond – because of course it’s Bond he’s thinking of – is in too deep to quibble. Besides, there’s the small matter of Q’s fingers round his windpipe, just tight enough to steal his breath.

Q swears softly as he comes, clutches at Bond’s collar rather than his throat. He would look so beautiful in a collar, like a half tamed animal, eyes almost closed with pleasure as Q gave him his reward. 

‘That’s right.’ Q murmurs. ‘Let me take care of you. Let me..’

The water is becoming cold and the pleasure of the orgasm is fading. Q stretches and hauls himself out of the bath, towelling himself on his way to bed, drops between the sheets and is instantly, contentedly, asleep. 

On the third day Bond’s cover is blown, a disaster that ultimately leads to him using Q’s briefcase to blow up a moving train, leaping off at the last moment possible and slithering down an embankment, movements made unco-ordinated by the drugs his captors expected to keep him docile. 

Deliciously strong, but not invulnerable, Bond crashes and collapses against a chain link fence halfway down just as the flare and roar of the explosion swell up behind him, forcing the first carriage off the tracks to start a deceptively slow roll down the slope, dragging the rest of the train behind it to bury him in a cascade of dirt and pebbles and broken window glass. 

‘You need to get up.’ Q is in his ear, insistent. He’s got visual coverage now, and that and the painful sound of Bond’s breathing has his heart hammering behind his ribcage in sympathetic panic. ‘Get out of there.’ He repeats, but Bond shakes his head, winded, dazed. 

‘On your feet.’ This time it’s _that_ voice, the one there’s no arguing with, the one Q is wielding in flat contradiction to protocol, because Bond will be dead if he doesn’t move himself, and Bond is clearly in no state to think. All Q has left is to try to trip his instincts. 

‘Over the fence. Now.’ He urges, watching the small figure – there’s no CCTV, it’s a satellite image, and poor – haul himself up the head high barricade, drop himself over, stumbling as he lands, almost falling again. ‘Move.’ Q is relentless. ‘Keep moving. Faster.’

A few metres beyond the danger zone he finally lets Bond collapse, filthy with his own blood. 

‘Status.’ He says sharply, still worried about the sharp sound as Bond inhales and the way he’s huddled on the ground. But Bond only curls in on himself more tightly, protectively. 

He feels raw with the poison in his system, driving emotions to the surface where Q can use them. Why is it never enough? Whatever he does, never enough. There’s always more, always something else. 

He must have said that out loud, Q’s voice turns gentle at once. Reassuring. It doesn't occur to him to ask himself whether he would do this with any of the other agents.

‘Ssh. No, you’ve been good. So good. You’re so strong. There’ll be someone with you soon, I promise. Just tell me how you are.’ 

Those few people close enough to hear what Q is saying might stare, but he just shrugs, masking the adrenaline, the inherent satisfaction in talking James down, hearing his breathing slow and calm as Q continues to murmur reassurance.

Protocol be damned. What else could he possibly do, just let the man drop?


	3. Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post mission analysis.

‘And long term?’ Moneypenny asks, because of course she knows. She always knows everything. Including the fact that Mallory (M, Q reminds himself. Must learn to think of him as M) should be having this conversation with Q but almost certainly won’t. Given his own track record Mallory probably doesn’t think Q’s done anything wrong.

‘007 is an experienced agent.’ Q believes what he's saying, so he's not sure why he feels like he needs to convince himself. ‘He’s survived much more unsettling things than me..’ He reaches for an appropriate phrase. ‘..taking temporary control.' 

Like, for example, plunging off a bridge with Moneypenny’s bullet in him, but if Eve realises what Q is thinking right now, she chooses to ignore it.

‘So it was temporary? You’re not staking a claim?’

‘That would have been completely inappropriate in the circumstances.’

‘I’ve news for you Q. It was exactly completely inappropriate.’

‘I was looking after him. That’s my job.’ Q tangles his fingers in his hair, displacement, frustration. MI6 is not kind to her agents. To paraphrase Bond himself; however much they give, there’s always more to take. That Q is now a part of that process only maddens him more. 

There’s anger at himself as well, if he’s honest. He should have found another way. He is _supposed_ to be clever. 

Still, Bond is alive. Patched up, checked into an excellent hotel - not the same excellent hotel as before, because people are undoubtedly looking for him there and he is in no condition to deal with that, but still very nice – and just waiting for the doctors to declare him fit to fly. Q hasn’t spoken to him since the medical team picked him up. Hopefully he’s resting rather than propping up the hotel bar. 

Actually and not completely against medical advice, James Bond is on his second small scotch. With his ribs strapped up and his suit over the top he feels almost himself again. He’s managed to cover up his bruised face with make up, and, since the make up itself is not completely invisible, added a very slight amount of silver to his hair and the beard that’s made itself apparent in the last day. He’s left his tie off too, his collar unbuttoned, throat exposed. 

They’d nagged him for it at Eton. Considered him too young to be displaying himself like that. Too young to be hanging around the maids’ rooms. Or one particular maid’s room. 

That obsession too had been about her voice as much as anything else. It had made him feel weak and dizzy and he would have followed it anywhere. It was just so.. everything. 

He couldn’t explain it at the time, too young to understand, and she hadn’t been much older, new to power. He doesn’t resent her. He’d never felt at home in that school anyway.

Q, on the other hand, had known exactly what he was doing, words and tone perfectly pitched to wrap themselves around Bond’s chest and tug at him in a way he thought he’d left behind for good, threatening to drag him under. 

It made everything so simple, so easy. He hadn’t wanted it to stop, even after the medics arrived. Felt almost sick when Q had signed off, voice cooling into its normal range, and Bond had remembered who they really were. 

Bile rises in the back of his throat, tainting the smoky warmth of the whisky, and he suddenly wants to find his tie and wash off the glitter and at least be able to pretend to himself he isn’t this bloody conflict, craving but ready to throttle Q if he tries it again. 

If Q even wanted to. He might be as keen to put this little interlude behind them as Bond is. Fantasies notwithstanding. 

007 sets his glass down on the polished metal of the table, shakes his head as the barman glances his way to check whether he wants a refill, and heads back to the hotel room. Contrary to popular belief he does have some small inkling about how to take care of himself. 

Which is just as well. Nobody else is going to.


	4. Arrabiata

Bond doesn’t come into Q branch to hand back his equipment. Instead he waits for the 20 minutes or so that Q normally snatches for lunch and finds him in the canteen, pushing pasta arrabiata about his plate indifferently. He looks up as Bond slides into the seat opposite and sets a metal case down on the table between them. One Walther PPK back in its box, and a twisted vaguely slug like object that Q takes a moment to recognise as the burnt and battered handle of the briefcase bomb. He must have persuaded someone to retrieve it from the train wreckage.

Q treats it in much the same way he treats the dead things the cats bring home from time to time; pokes it with a fingertip and loses what little interest in his meal he ever had. 

‘Consider it a souvenir.’ Bond suggests. 

‘Do we need or want a souvenir?’ Q asks.

‘You did ask me to return it if possible.’ 

‘I am aware there were the best possible reasons it was not possible.’ Q looks displeased at the inelegance of that sentence. ‘How are your ribs?’ He says more gently. Bond is still favouring one side of his body, and Q is irrationally concerned that medical may not have looked after him properly. That Q could take him home and do better.

Perhaps some of that shows in his expression, because Bond’s general air of smugness sharpens into something watchful.

‘Don’t.’ He says shortly. 

‘Sorry.’ Q retracts the hand he doesn’t even remember laying on 007s arm. ‘I overstepped.’ 

Bond doesn’t respond for a moment. Overstepped is also a word only Doms use. Not _I went too far_ or _I was a pushy bastard_. Overstepped. 

‘Moneypenny spoke to you didn’t she?’

‘That’s not why I’m apologising.’ Q’s eyes linger on Bond’s a fraction too long before shifting to the injured tissue just below it. Bond heals fast, the purplish bruise already beginning to bleed yellow and red out into the surrounding skin. ‘And you haven’t answered my question.’

‘I sometimes wonder what I’d have to do to stop that woman going on as if I'm fragile.’ 

‘Get knocked off an even higher bridge?’ Q suggests, distracted. Then his brain catches up with what he has just said. ‘Don’t you dare.’ 

Bond simply smiles and points at Q’s plate of food.

‘Are you going to eat that?’ 

‘Probably not.’ Q offers Bond his fork on impulse and is slightly surprised when he hesitates only the briefest moment before taking it and trying a mouthful.

‘Aren’t there supposed to be chillies in this?’

‘And garlic.’ Q says sadly. 

Bond eats it anyway, and as quickly as is consistent with manners. After a few mouthfuls he steals a sip from Q’s water glass as well, glancing up to check his reaction. 

‘I’ll get us some coffee.’ Q murmurs. It’s not a question. On his way past Bond’s chair he lets himself touch the man briefly again, just a gentle press of his palm to the shoulder he knows is uninjured. 

This time Bond doesn’t object.


	5. Cushion

Bond won’t go home with Q. Indeed, he won’t go anywhere off site with him. Instead they fall into a stable pattern of something that’s not quite nothing. Within the confines of MI6 Bond turns up quite frequently, occasionally allows Q to buy him food, even kips on the battered sofa in the small office Q never uses. 

‘Like a puppy.’ Mallory suggests. 

‘No, not like a puppy.’ Q says, repressing idle thoughts of holding Bond on a short leash with his head in Q’s lap so Q can pet through his hair. Petting, like kissing, being one of the things that makes Bond skittish. 

Which last is ridiculous. Bond has kissed Russian agents. 

‘What is it he actually wants from you?’ Moneypenny wonders aloud. 

‘I’ve no idea but I wish he’d just learn to ask for it.’ 

Q tells himself he could take it if James didn’t want him. That would be perfectly reasonable. It’s his decision to make. The enormous power MI6 wields over Bond’s life might well make the thought of further dominance unappealing. It’s conceivable as well that Bond might not find him attractive. Bond’s own body is rather beautiful, sculptured. Strong. Q has a weak spot for strong men. Strong beautiful men who want someone to take all that away, the burden of always being strong, of never breaking down. 

He’d thought, perhaps, that was something Bond would want too. 

 

‘Is it a test?’ He asks, about two weeks after the incident in the canteen. ‘Are you waiting for me to crack and take you down again?’

‘Do you think you could?’ Bond’s chest tightens with a now familiar clotted mess of fear and desire. He carefully keeps it out of his voice, off his face. 

‘Not unless you wanted me to. Do you want me to?’ 

Bond is silent for a long time after that. Q, who is trying to embed a miniature black box in the handle of the latest briefcase prototype, almost forgets he’s there. 

He only fully remembers when the agent finally pulls himself to his feet and crosses the room to the door. 

 

‘One day.’ Q says next morning, over coffee and croissants in the small office he now spends rather more time in. ‘You’re going to learn to answer my questions.’

‘Make me.’ Bond suggests. 

‘No.’ Because Q is starting to work out what the problem is with 007. ‘You don’t trust me enough.’

‘I trust you more than I trust most people.’ Bond tells him.

‘That’s still not enough.’

 

The next time Bond walks through the office door Q is sitting on his own couch for a change, one of the seat cushions on the floor by his feet. 

Bond freezes immediately, breath coming shallow as he tries not to think about how much he wants it. 

‘Or else?’ He asks.

‘There is no ‘or else’.’ Q tells him. ‘I’m not going to order you, and I’m not going to deliver an ultimatum.’

The cushion is spongy, not uncomfortable under James’ knees, and Q’s hand combs immediately into James’ hair, pulling his cheek down against Q’s thigh. 

He closes his eyes and lets himself fall into the feeling of relief. Of having someone else take control. He’s just so tired of having to be bloody superhuman all the bloody time. 

It won’t last, this feeling. He’s still worried he’s going to do something stupid, hurt himself or Q, get hurt by himself or Q. He has to be on guard against that. The dark helps, being stroked helps, but it doesn’t make it go away. 

‘Tell me what it is you’re working so hard not to tell me.’ Q says. 

‘I broke a man’s nose.’ 

‘Lots, I should think.’ Q teases. Then he kisses Bond’s cheek, runs his tongue over his skin where the bruise was. James keeps still and enjoys it, waiting to be asked to speak again.  


‘Who was he?’

‘He was the last person who tried to discipline me.’ Bond goes to lift his head and gauge Q’s reaction, but Q’s fingers tighten in his hair and he stills obediently again.

‘Did he hurt you?’ Q’s voice is quiet, controlled. Not even a hint of the possessive fury he’s suddenly prey to.

‘Not any more than I wanted him to.’ Bond rubs his cheek against the weave of Q’s trousers. It feels wonderful. ‘I panicked.’ It actually feels good to say it. ‘I don’t know where I thought I was.’ 

Q bends to press another kiss to James’ face, this time against his eyebrow. There’s a small scar here, shrapnel damage. It’s irrationally annoying, how much damage has been allowed to happen to this man over the years. 

‘It’s alright.’ Q reassures him. ‘I’ll be careful.’


	6. Couch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Careful means Bond’s flat, not Q’s.

Careful means Bond’s flat, not Q’s. He’ll give him an hour to get home, get comfortable, and then Q will follow. 

Bond nods as he’s told this much, tilts his head back as Q stands, looking up the lean length of him curiously. It’s written all over him, the readiness to react to threat, and for a moment Q wonders how he can possibly expect to dissipate it. Meanwhile his fingers shift in James’ absurdly short hair, pulling his face back against Q’s stomach briefly before Q steps back.

‘You can get up now.’

On his feet Bond is taller than Q, and he stoops slightly, automatically, to compensate. Until Q chucks him under the chin and tells him to put his shoulders back. 

‘Chest out. That’s better.’ He tilts his head, admiring the shift of muscle under the shirt. ‘Good. This evening then.’ 

Fortunately his own home is actually in the same direction as Bond’s, which means he can go there first, feed the cats and pick a few things up. No tethers or handcuffs though. Not yet. 

There’s a collar with a D ring large enough for Q to slip his finger through. That should give him a measure of control while making sure he’s close enough to see Bond’s reaction. No blindfold, since he wants Bond to be able to reassure himself that he’s not in enemy hands. No gag, but something to bite down on. 

He packs those and a few more items in a smallish messenger bag, and slings the strap over his shoulder. It’s not much bigger than the usual one for his tablet, and hopefully will not appear too intimidating. 

He doesn’t text or ring to let Bond know he’s on his way. Doesn’t want to sound like he’s asking, to give Bond the option of backing out under the guise of being polite. If he wants to cancel, he’ll have to make that contact himself.

Bond does actually consider it, flat on his back on the squashy leather couch that slightly dominates the room. He deliberately bought something wide enough to sleep on, should anyone want to. Other than that the space is largely empty; a couple of high stools pulled under the breakfast bar, a small drinks cabinet that’s the right height to set a drink or book on if he’s on the couch. 

He’d asked whether he should change, and Q had agreed, said that he’d leave it to James to pick what he felt was appropriate. The lack of instruction is frustrating but he knows he only has himself to blame. He’s the reason Q is being careful. 

In the end he answers the door in grey cotton trousers, workout or pyjama bottoms, barefoot and barechested. Q backs him into the living room, hands resting on his biceps to stop him turning round. They’re broad, solid muscle, smooth and slightly tanned, too delicious not to stroke before pulling the man in, digging his fingers just a little, demanding. James closes his eyes to savour the slight suggestion of bruising, the heat of Q’s mouth on his. At almost the same height kissing is easy, lazy, slow, but his touch is possessive. 

‘On your knees.’ He says, and James sinks more easily this time. ‘Eyes closed.’ That is harder, especially now Q’s hands are off him. He can tell he’s still close from his voice, moving behind him, giving orders. 

‘Hands behind your back.’ Bond doesn't disobey because he doesn't want Q to stop, but it's a battle against his training to do it.

Q walks round him again, taking in the tension down the line of his back, head slightly lifted although his eyes are still obediently closed, wrists crossed rather than hands loosely clasped together. Still ready to fend off potential attack. If someone saw Bond like this and then decided to tie him up Q rather thinks they were asking for a broken nose. He moves round in front again.

‘Give me your hands.’ Bond does, palm up, and Q takes first the right and then the left, massaging briefly over the lifeline – Bond’s are mismatched and broken, not that Q believes in palmistry in any measure – before settling them on his own hips. Once the second is in place Bond sways forward, moving so slightly it almost isn’t a movement at all, his throat working briefly to swallow the pooling of saliva into his mouth. Q slides the knuckles of his right hand against it, under his chin, turns his hand to press gently with thumb against James' Adam’s apple. 

Interestingly, the tension that ebbed away when he let Bond have his hands back doesn’t make a reappearance. In fact he seems to be sinking a little more, his breathing slowing, the lines at the corners of his eyes shallowing as he stops having to force himself not to look.

‘I’m going to put a collar on you now.’ It’s ready, folded, in Q’s left hand. Has been since he walked behind Bond and dropped his bag on the couch. 

Bond hasn't been asked his opinion and doesn't give it, but he tilts his head back a little further, exposing his vulnerable throat, then lets it fall forward to make it easier for Q to fasten the buckle at the back. It’s not tight – Q is already stroking his fingertips under the back of it, over the top of James’ spine, so that the leather shifts against his Adam’s apple. 

There’s no pressure, just the awareness that there could be, that the collar is there to control James’ movements. He can feel himself unravelling under that restraint, sensations and sounds blurring around him. Which is fine. He doesn’t need to be alert. 

‘You’ve got so much control.’ Q murmurs. It doesn’t sound like a criticism, not the way Q says it. It sounds deliciously like praise. ‘It’s beautiful.’

Q hooks his finger through the D ring at the front of the collar and smiles.

‘Let’s put that control to the test.’ He says.


	7. Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much control.

Q moves his fingers again through Bond’s hair in a way that would ruffle it if such a thing were possible, and Bond’s nascent speculation evaporates immediately. Instead he leans into the touch as far as he can with the collar rigid against his neck, rises to his feet when a gentle tug makes it obvious that’s what Q wants. 

Q scoops up his bag again and leads James across the floor to his bedroom, talking him through it, despite the fact that there are no stairs and very little furniture. Bond could probably also be trusted to know the layout of his own home, but that would be to give him back the initiative, and Q has no intention of doing that until he has him thoroughly wrecked. 

James’ bed has a footboard and headboard with turned posts – too thick to snap but not so thick that a fist can’t be closed around them. The only other furniture in the room is a small lamp table with a drawer, and a wardrobe fitted along the far wall. 

There are no chairs and Q is beginning to suspect that, whether he knows it or not, James has developed a slight aversion. 

He’s never really thought there was much fun to be had with someone tied to a chair anyway. Much better spread on the bed, soft grey cotton sliding down as James settles himself more comfortably on the sheets. 

‘Take those off.’ 

Bond slides the trousers off smoothly but not hurriedly, and Q is fairly certain that he is still in that state someone once described to him as ‘floating, but submerged as well’. In truth Q isn’t quite able to imagine it. His own arousal is sharp and demanding, especially at the sight of Bond fully naked. He wants to mark him somehow, bite or bruise. 

He wants to tie him down, limbs spread, everything exposed to Q’s curious eyes and fingers. Perhaps another time, when Bond is more certain of him. For now Q straddles his waist, still fully clothed, and bends to nip kisses against Bond’s lips, tease between them with his tongue. James follows his lead, tilting his head to allow more access as Q licks and bites carefully at the soft lobe of his ear, the solid line of his jaw, red marks that will fade by morning. 

‘Hands.’ Q orders, sitting back slightly so he can catch each wrist and position Bond with his hands above his head, clasping the vertical posts of the headboard tightly, overlapping his fingers with his thumb, arching slightly then settling again as the wool of Q’s trousers teases across sensitive skin and Q runs his hands down from wrists to shoulder, shoulder to chest. 

‘Stay still.’ Q removes his glasses and brushes his lips to the underside of James’ jaw again before sitting back. For a moment his palm flattens against James’ ribs (or rather the muscular abdomen that covers James’ ribs) and he repeats himself with the additional steel to his voice that commands rather than asks. ‘Stay.’ 

Obediently, Bond stills everything but his breathing. It’s coming more quickly now, chest rising and falling under Q’s lips as he bites at the softer flesh of James’ nipple, carefully at first, but increasingly aggressively. Until it’s pink and swollen and tender against the golden skin around it, and the touch of the cooling lubricant must be soothing. 

James continues to pant anyway, lips parted, nails digging into the headboard to relieve some of the pressure. With his glasses on the bedside table Q can’t quite see if there are scratches in the varnish, but he can read the curve of James’ neck, his parted lips, the heat of his skin. All laid out, naked and ready beneath him, and Q wants and wants. 

The slick is moving from cool to warm under Q’s fingers and his lips close over James’ hungrily. Briefly. He pulls back with a flirtatious little lick at Bond’s lower lip and stands to strip himself to the waist.

‘Ssh. You’ve been so good.’ He murmurs, even though the loss of contact hasn’t pulled sound or movement from Bond yet. Instead he tightens his grip on the headboard again, heady with adrenaline and arousal and praise. 

He’s gorgeous. Ridiculously, indecently gorgeous, and Q teases, stroking over his belly, his inner thighs, fingers only grazing the places James aches to be touched, almost as if by accident. He really does have a phenomenal measure of control, almost too much, so obediently still and quiet it makes him difficult to read. Only his muscles twitch beneath Q’s hands, penis fat and firm as Q finally circles it, strokes lazy and leisurely down it with one lightly slicked hand, and hears James sigh with satisfaction.

Q could shush him again, but he rather prefers to exploit this one unguarded reaction, the slight gasp as his thumb sweeps over the glans, picking up a little more moisture. The increasing breathlessness that means he’s closer now, worked up to a point where his knuckles are white with the effort of holding himself back, cock twitching in involuntary movement as Q stops entirely, just holding still, fingers tight but not squeezing. 

At first Bond doesn’t understand. He even raises his head and, without thinking, risks a glance down the length of himself to where Q is, trying to see why he’s stopped. 

There is no reason. Q has stopped purely because he wants to, a smug little curve to his mouth even as he meets James’ gaze straight on, suddenly stern in a way that only arouses the older man more.

‘Did I say you could do that?’

James’ head falls back on the pillow as Q begins again at the beginning, that lazy little smile increasing as he strokes, slow and indolent and maddening, and James closes his eyes again, quivering with the effort of keeping his hips on the bed when he wants so much to buck into Q’s closed fist, to make this happen faster, even though he knows it’s pointless, Q will go no faster than he intends to. 

‘That’s better. Good, so good.’ And now James is utterly lost, spiralling helplessly into need again, and again thwarted, Q praising him repeatedly for his control, which is nonsense, because he has no control. Q has taken it all, and that, in itself, scatters his thoughts to nothing even as Q lets go completely and James swallows the urge to whine, beg, anything to persuade Q to take him in hand again. 

‘Would you like something to bite down on?’ Q’s voice is cool in his ear, breath warm, finger circling the nipple he was earlier playing with, and James swears he can feel it throb in response, just as he can hear his heartbeat through the rush of blood. Q is cupping his jaw now, turning James’ face towards his own. ‘Look at me a moment.’ 

The vision of Q is blurred, and for a confused moment James thinks that’s because the glasses are gone. It takes him less than a second to realise he’s got that the wrong way round. It’s Q who needs glasses, although clearly not this close up, because his eyes are clear and focussed enough even to pull James a short way out of his own internal fog. 

‘Something to bite down on?’ Q suggests again. James nods.

It does help, just a thickish rod of dark coloured silicone, but it helps to dig his teeth into it, to displace the need to thrust or speak or even try to roll away when it becomes too much for him to just lie there and take it. Even though he wants to, wants to please. Had forgotten how good that feels, even through the frustration, and then after, when Q finally lets him come, so intense and filthy with the way Q’s palm wraps over it, pressing it to his belly and spreading it there, up onto his chest, lavish with praise and sticky fingers and little licks to taste what he’s milked the man of. 

Doms don’t, normally, perform fellatio, and Q has never tried it, but he’s not averse to the flavour. 

He likes James like this as well, slack, almost drowsy, arms and jaw heavy and loose as Q uncurls his fingers, removes the toy from between his lips, tells him he can open his eyes again. Something he doesn’t seem to want to do, blinking against the light and the exhaustion and the want to stay down in the place Q put him. 

‘Shower?’ Q asks, fingers sliding between James’ lips, voice warm and suggestive. ‘I want your mouth.’ He adds, speaking softly, so softly, and James nods, even though he’s almost too weak to stand, because he wants to taste Q and please him and using his mouth to do that will keep him in this space just a little longer. 

Q leads him by the hand this time, lets him sit on the edge of the bath as he adjusts the shower spray. This won’t take long. Shouldn’t, in fact, with the porcelain hard against Bond’s knees, and Q wanting, teasing himself as much as he teased James with his stopping and slowing and bringing him to the edge. Bond’s mouth is perfect. Hot and clearly experienced, like the rest of him. his eyes downcast, attention focussed, water clinging to the short lashes. Q could slow him down, but there’s no need, he’s ready to come, the shape of Bond’s skull hard in his hands as he holds him close, swallowing cleanly. 

Q slumps back against the wall, catching his breath. 

‘Bed.’ He says. Meaning towels, and then bed, and shared body heat, because Bond is very possibly going to come up before he sleeps, and he might feel lost, or tearful, or any of a hundred things, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. 

All of which is far too much to articulate right now, even for Q. So he sticks with just the one word, and helps Bond to his feet.


	8. Toast

Bond wakes before Q next morning, pushing away familiar but uncomfortable dreams; subconsciously aware of the change in the volume of traffic outside, the start of a working day, even though it’s dark still and rain is hammering down. 

Q doesn’t seem to have noticed. In fact, if he weren’t radiating so much body heat James might be tempted to check for a pulse. He sleeps as if drugged, sprawled and unmoving as a starfish. Not even the turning on of the light raises a response. 

Bond has slept with Doms who expected him to ask for permission before he left the bed, let alone the room, but he was more eager to please in those days. He wouldn’t tolerate it now, however satisfied and fed-feeling the night before has left him. 

Besides, last night is over, the collar he’d worn scrolled up tight on the bedside cabinet rather than left around his neck. Bond rubs gently at his throat as the sense memory intrudes, those long, careful fingers sliding the leather a little tighter to work the buckle loose, Q’s sharp voice softened into nonsense, shushes and soothing noises against reality as it flooded back. 

Bond isn’t much of a one for introspection. It’s enough that last night... worked. That this morning, dark and gloomy as it is, feels good. 

Hot shower, black coffee, toast and jam. He’s just boiled the kettle for a second time when Q finally emerges from the bedroom. Bond’s black dressing gown wraps around him almost twice over and his hair is an improbable bird’s nest, but he’s clearly very much awake, scrolling through emails on his mobile and scowling. 

‘Breakfast?’ 

‘I’m not hungry.’ It takes a good hour for Q’s appetite to kick in, which is why his usual route in to work passes so many coffee shops. ‘Tea please, if you’ve got it. Or coffee’s fine.’ 

The tea is a ridiculously strong assam, the sort that needs milk to take the edge off. Q drinks it anyway, unobtrusively watching Bond over the top of his smartphone as he toasts himself another two slices and layers them thickly with butter and strawberry jam. If Bond knows he's being watched – and surely he must, it’s his job to know these things – he doesn’t react. Q abandons his emails and moves on to the news. 

‘Weather’s set for the day. Traffic problems over Vauxhall Bridge – when aren’t there? - Sudden change to the itinerary of the royal visit – looks like Mallory managed to bend the Home Secretary’s ear.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ One of the junior agents got shot obtaining that intel. She’ll have her leg in plaster for weeks yet. 

‘Bloody exploding bullets.’ Q murmurs, obviously following the same train of thought. He sets the phone down and openly watches Bond for a bit, shirt still open at the neck, jacket off. Q wants to bite him, clavicle and bicep and inner thigh, press him down into the soft, slippery leather of the couch and undo every button, hands tied behind his back with the belt of his own dressing gown, trousers around his knees. 

‘What are you smiling about?’ 

‘I’ll let you guess.’ Q stretches like a cat, hands braced on the breakfast bar, back arched, rocking the stool briefly back on two legs; flicks another assessing, predatorial glance from Bond’s throat to his eyes. 

‘You look as if you want to maul me.’ Bond mutters. 

‘If only there were time for it.’ Q sighs as he checks his phone. ‘You could undo another button though, if you want.’

‘You could get dressed.’ 

‘Yes, I suppose I could. In fact, I suppose I’d better.’ 

‘I’ll make you some more tea.’ It’s not _serving_ Q, not quite. It’s just politeness. Bond doesn't belong to Q in any way. He's sure Q knows that. 

Of course Q knows that.


	9. Tea

For all his complaints, Q rather likes the tube. Since he lives on the road that time forgot – a small row of mews houses on a one way street so narrow that cars rarely turn down it for fear they’ll never get out again - it’s just as well. 

Still the car is efficient, if you don’t mind taking the scenic route to avoid the congestion. Or just because you prefer the view from Westminster Bridge.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ James asks. ‘Shame to waste a beautiful machine on a short hop.’ 

‘As long as I’m in by nine.’ Q notes that Parliament has not blown up overnight, which is always a plus, and settles back to enjoy watching Bond drive. He has the abstracted look Q has sometimes seen in musicians, as if they’ve forgotten where they end and the instrument begins. 

‘Does that mean you’re not going to crash this car into the Seine or drive it down any ski slopes in the foreseeable future?’ Q asks.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever driven a car down a ski slope.’ Bond looks thoughtful, as if that’s an oversight on his part. ‘Do you think..’ 

‘Theoretically possible I suppose, with outriggers.' Q muses. 'The real challenge would be getting them to lift the car up so that the front tyres didn’t impede progress.’ He takes in Bond’s faintly smiling profile and wants to laugh. ‘That’s not a promise by the way. And for goodness sake don’t tell Mallory I’m giving you ideas.’

‘You’re having trouble calling him M as well?’

‘Not to his face.’ Q squints at the man on the entrance to the underground car park and realises that no, his glasses are fine, the rain really is heavy enough to obscure vision over just a few metres. 

They park up and sit for a moment or two while Bond takes a neatly rolled tie from his glove compartment and ties it efficiently, smoothing his collar down afterwards. 

‘James.’ The use of his first name gets his attention. He's aware as well that Q has barely taken his eyes off him since they got in the car. He rather likes the attention. ‘Last night. That is going to happen again.’ 

‘Are you asking me or telling me?’ 

‘Telling you.’ Q is not always this presumptuous, or this hurried, but Bond could be ordered to the Kalahari Desert tomorrow.

‘Well then.’ Bond says. ‘Consider me told.’ 

‘But horrible things are probably going to start happening in Sakai about eightish. I’m almost certainly stuck here for the night.’ 

‘002?’ 

‘That’s classified.’ Q mouth twitches with the ridiculousness of what he’s saying, because of course Bond knows it’s 002. Who else would they send to Japan when Kat’s available? 

‘She better bring me back some nigori.’

‘There are shops in Soho.’

‘Not the same.’ Bond protests. ‘And it takes all the romance out of it.’ 

 

‘And what were you two doing in a parked car for 4 minutes this morning.’ Moneypenny is sleek and poised against Q’s desk. One of the techs hovering behind her, biting his lip nervously. Q supposes she’s noticed. He wonders if Mallory sent her. 

‘Talking.’ Q says shortly. ‘Tea please, Jacob. And one for Moneypenny.’

‘Yes sir.’ Jake says happily. Jake likes orders a little too much, in Q’s opinion. Likes doing menial tasks he’s really rather too bright to be wasted on as well. Eve would make mincemeat of him, of course, but that would still be preferable to him finding someone outside. He’d probably choose to resign rather than lie about his job long term. It’s a shame. 

‘I’m not just being nosy.' Eve is persistent. 'This does have implications within work.’

‘I very much doubt it. Both Bond and I are almost disturbingly good at compartmentalising.’ 

‘Bond’s loyalty..’ 

Q interrupts because his blood is already boiling and he really doesn’t want to hear any more. ‘Is to MI6. As is mine. Nothing will change that.’ 

There’s an awkward little pause, only interrupted when Jake brings Eve’s tea in the X scrabble mug, Q’s secret Santa gift from 2 years ago, before the world turned upside down. Q, of course, has his usual one. 

It’s the numbers that are really the key to the game of Scrabble though, not the letters. People forget that. 

Q tells himself to calm down. Of course they were going to ask questions. This is MI6. They can’t afford to take any risks. ‘I’m here all day if M wants to talk to me.’ He says agreeably, sipping his tea cautiously while it’s still hot. ‘Just let me know when.’

 

By 9pm, which is an hour off tomorrow’s sunrise where Kat is, where the landscape is currently ablaze, courtesy of the bomb in the car she just drove like bloody fury out of the city and into the hills (and not quite as far as the mountain tunnel that should have contained the blast if they’d only had more time) Mallory has still not spoken to Q. 

‘No civilian casualties.’ He repeats, listening to Kat catch her breath after her frantic sprint from the blast radius. He tries not to think that Bond would have wedged the accelerator down with something and jumped the crash barrier. ‘The relevant authorities will monitor the fire. Good chance of rain, anyway, so that’s something. I can book a taxi to pick you up from the Gurowaru golf club, about 2 miles away cross country. N, NE, terrain might be a bit precipitous.’

‘Sounds fine Q. I’ll give you a buzz when I get there.’ 

Another hour then. Just as well he has tea to get him through. He sips the warm brew. Pauses, now he’s got time to think and notice, and turns to see Jake at his usual desk, rewiring a circuit board with his usual delicacy and concentration. 

‘Jacob.’

‘Sir.’ 

‘Thank you for the tea, but go home. Now. Before I start planning how to introduce you to nice girls.’ 

‘Nice girls aren’t really my thing sir.’

‘Which is precisely my point. Now go.’ 

‘Ok, ok, I’m gone.’

And then there was one. Q glances at Kat’s tracking signal before going to the kitchen to make fresh tea (N, NE, right on target). His old mug is sitting innocently on the draining board, washed clean of Eve’s lipstick and the tannin stains from the morning. 

X for Xmas. X marks the spot. It feels like forever ago. 

He wonders what Bond is doing right now.


	10. Black Coffee, Hot Chocolate

A late, light, hasty supper of conveyor belt sushi and peppermint tea leaves Q craving chocolate croissants and orange flavoured cocoa for breakfast next morning, a luxury which involves going into two different chain coffee shops and queuing.

At least that gives him time to have a short text conversation with 007.

** Coffee in my office?**

** Are you asking me or telling me?**

** Asking. **

** See you in 20 minutes. **

He could do without Mallory being there as well when he walks in though. It’s not that he minds if his employer is intercepting his texts or tracking Bond’s swipecard trail. Both are perfectly standard things for an intelligence agency to do.

What he would like, though, is a little more subtlety about it. Particularly since it doesn’t make it any easier to get James to relax. Q starts the process by handing him his black coffee, forcing him to break parade rest. Only then does he acknowledge his superior.

‘Did you want me sir?’

‘Only to say that I've seen your report on Operation Ex-pat.’

‘Yes. Anything wrong?’

‘Not at all, but it occurs to me you must have left very late last night.’

‘Hmm?’ Q is busy coaxing the lid off his hot chocolate and it takes him a moment to realise that the conversation has just taken an very odd turn. Normally he could stay all night and no-one would notice. What's special about this occasion? ‘Sorry sir, I don’t follow.’

‘You should take the afternoon off, Q. Relax.’

‘Alright.’

At that Mallory blinks, as if he’d been expecting Q to argue with him.

‘Obviously if there’s an emergency..’

‘My phone is always on.’ Q says cheerfully. ‘Thank you sir.’ Mallory still looks a touch stiff and it occurs to Q he may be overdoing the 'sirs'. They never came naturally, even in school, and sometimes he overcompensates.

‘Good. Well, if you’ll excuse me.’

Q waits until M is gone before trying to exchange a look with Bond, but Bond is all impassivity and short sips of scalding fluid.

‘Oh come on.’ Q says. ‘You’re wondering what that was as much as I am.’

‘No I’m not. I know exactly what it was. It was a pissing contest.’ Bond says, finally coming to life and rummaging in the grease stained bag for his own (almond) croissant. ‘He’s telling you you’re not as important as you think you are.’

‘But he’s still going to call me in an emergency?’

‘He didn’t think you’d give in so easily.’

‘Sod that. I want the afternoon off. You’re not around are you?’

‘Not until this evening.’

They're quiet after that. Bond bites and rips his food and Q pulls his to pieces, smearing his fingers with chocolate and licking them clean. He kisses James before he lets him go, even though the smell of almonds always makes him think of potassium cyanide.

'7 o clock.' He says, half expecting the 'asking or telling' query again.

This time though, James just says yes.


	11. Velcro

Bond showers once he gets home. It’s been a day of bland food, monotonous target practice, and even duller mission reports (mostly proofreading to make sure no factual errors had crept in while they were translated into official language). There had been a long lunch in the middle of it – one of those official things – but he’s still more tired than he would be after a bloody marathon. He sheds his clothes on his way through the living room, and sets the shower to pulse. 

Hot water pummels life back into shoulder muscles that were never intended to slump over a desk; drenches his hair as he briefly soaps it, meagre suds spiralling down the plughole. The air fills with steam heat. 

It’s a quiet bliss, this shower, making him feel he can breathe again, like a human animal instead of a cogwheel, and his mind strays to two nights ago when he was on his knees in here, Q’s fingers trying to find purchase on his saturated skin, and everything about him pale, and sleek, and stronger than expected. 

James closes his eyes, better to visualise the memory, and slides his hand down, squeezing and releasing in slow pulses to coax himself fully erect. He hesitates before he gets there though, suddenly wondering if he should actually be doing this. 

If Q wants to tease him again he’d probably rather James didn’t take the edge off. 

The real issue with that thought is that it only makes him more aroused, his skin tighter, cock thickening in his hand even as he loosens his grip and lets go. 

But he does let go. It doesn’t matter that he’s not been given orders, would probably have kicked against them if he had. He knows how good he can be. He ought to try. 

He turns the shower to a cold light spray, something to soothe the heat that’s risen in him, his head falling forward against the tiles, tiny pinpricks of water settling on the muscles of his back, his hair. He’s naturally braced like this, legs apart. It makes him think of someone behind him. Q, hands besides Bond’s own on the tiled wall as he breaches him slowly, drives deep enough that their bodies are flush, Q’s hips and thighs and chest pressed to Bond’s back, warm breath on the nape of his neck.

It’s been a while since he was penetrated. Perhaps he should ask, but there’s foolish pride in not asking. In focussing on what Q wants. 

He’s lost track of time a little, just breathing in and out and completely failing to distract himself from his arousal. He thinks he’s been in the shower about 20 minutes, but normally he’d be sure. 

That probably means he’s already sliding into a passive state. 

There doesn’t seem any reason to resist it. He towels off, slips into a pair of loose cotton trousers he originally bought for practising judo, and spreads himself out on the bed comfortably, thinking of nothing in particular. Just waiting.

When the front door bell finally rings, it wakes him up. 

By now he’s hungry, so he unwraps a protein bar when he buzzes Q in, drowsiness clinging to him like syrup, and is halfway through it by the time he opens the flat door.

‘No dinner?’ Q asks. ‘No, don’t bolt it. It’s fine.’ He pulls a stool up at the breakfast bar and waits for James to finish. ‘Did I wake you?’ 

‘I got too comfortable.’ 

He looks it. Not quite awake yet in creased cotton trousers and suppressed yawns around one of those daft exercise-related confectionaries. Q doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything less like a government assassin, and oh, there’s the potential for a world of hurt in that, isn’t there? Fondness. He’s never been good at having someone under his hands without becoming affectionate. 

Never been good at running away from things that can hurt him either. 

Bond has left the bed rumpled, but Q only pulls the duvet off and leaves it on the floor for now anyway. His bag contains some short Velcro straps, padded cuffs. Bond could easily get out of them - just about anyone with an opposable thumb could – but only deliberately. 

‘Baby steps.’ Bond says. He’s not looking at Q, positioned on his side with his back to the door, and there’s a sourness to his tone that hasn’t been there before. Mockery, but not of Q. ‘I don’t suppose I could handle..’

‘Stop.’ Q’s hand presses down on Bond’s wrist just below where the soft cuffs wrap round. Not that it’s really needed, not when Q is using that voice on him. ‘Listen to me. This is not a test. This is not about whatever hostilities you’ve got going with yourself. This is about putting you where I want you. Understood?’ 

‘Understood.’ James can see Q hovering in his peripheral vision, kneeling up to reach over him and hold him still. He could turn his head and look at him properly if he wanted. Instead he closes his eyes, tilts his head, neck exposed submissively. ‘Sorry.’ 

‘Good. That’s better. I want you to breathe. In and out when I do..’ Q rests his hand on Bond’s chest to feel it expand and contract as he does his best to match the slow warm breath across the back of his neck. ‘That’s right. Good.. good.’ 

He’s talking gibberish, he knows, just soothing noises really, but James likes his voice, likes the praise. Took the scolding as well. And Q loves it, because James is strong and gorgeous and Q doesn’t believe they’ve built the cage that could contain him, but Q has him still, trapped within a few metres of Velcro and the slim weight of Q’s own body and murmured instructions.

He doesn’t react as Q shifts, resting up on his elbow so that he can see Bond’s face as he touches it, forefinger tracing the line of his jaw, the softness in the skin at the base of his throat, the very slight rasp of stubble along the harder planes, not yet visible to the eye. James swallows, a reflex movement, but is otherwise still, eyes half closed and dreamy, breathing deep and slow as he was told to. 

Q can feel the exhale as he touches his forefinger to James’ lips and they part instinctively.

‘No.’ Q arrests the movement with gentle pressure and continues to trace the narrow curve of James’ top lip with the back of his thumbnail as he settles again, mouth twitching ticklish into a lazy smile, just enough conscious thought to enjoy not having to think about what is happening. To just allow it. 

Then Q’s hand is back at his throat again, tighter than before, and he can feel himself surfacing, adrenaline and pulse and breath, everything responding, like shifting into a higher gear. 

‘Sssh. You’re perfectly safe. Just breathe, slowly now. In and out.’ He’s not restricting Bond’s airway, his chest rises and falls steadily as he gets used to the feel of Q’s hand on his throat. Q’s clever fingers, the same fingers which James has watched accelerating over his computer keyboard with no more than sufficient force (young enough to be born into a world of laptops rather than typewriters, touchscreens instead of push buttons) press lightly against his Adam’s apple, and he swallows as if against an obstruction, saliva pouring into his mouth; swallows that as well; tries to calm.

‘I have got.’ Q admits. ‘A bit of a thing for necks.’ 

‘Like Dracula did, you mean?’ 

‘Ah.’ Q says. ‘ _There_ you are.’

‘Or the Boston Strangler.’ Bond's speech vibrates, deep voice deeper than usual, sound confined within the curve of Q’s fingers. 

‘There’s no need to labour the point.’ Q snuggles his thumb into the warm hollow behind James’ ear and bites at the lobe. 'Behave.' 

‘Sorry. It’s just I was floating and then..’

‘And then I ripped you out of it. I know. But I wanted you like this.’ Q takes another nip at James’ earlobe that leaves it flushed and pink and James blinking in bewildered pleasure. 

‘Well, nice to be wanted anyway.’ He says.

‘You’re asking for a smack aren’t you?’ It isn’t rhetorical, but he keeps quiet, pretends he thinks it is, wondering how his mouth can suddenly be so dry when earlier he was practically drooling. 

‘Answer the question.’ Q is insistent, somehow managing to be gleeful and stern all at once. ‘Is that what you want, a spanking?’ He smiles, knowing, into the back of James’ neck. ‘Is that why you’re so bolshie sometimes?’

‘Sometimes.’ James’ admits, eyes fully closed now. He no longer seems bothered that Q still has him by the throat. Not even sufficiently aware to be surprised at himself. Q notices though. It’s rather his business to notice. 

‘There you are.’ He says softly, again, only the emphasis has shifted. ‘I’m going to put the collar on you now, alright?’ 

‘Yes.’ That would be nice, actually. 

‘And I think we’re going to need a safeword.’

‘Eton.’ 

‘Good boy.’ Q has been resisting saying those words half this night and the previous encounter, unsure if they’re the right ones to use what with James being older and – clearly – so much more experienced than himself, but they’re out now, and he doesn’t seem to object; only settles more comfortably as Q lets him go, eyes still closed, waiting. 

Trusting. Q isn’t quite sure how it happened, or even if it was something he did, but there it is. For the moment at least. Trusting. 

So he really, really, better not balls this up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to break off here but this chapter is growing and growing and if I'm to post tonight I have to put a break in it. This seemed like a natural point.


	12. Slick

Q fastens the collar just a little tighter than last time. James is very aware of it, rubs his cheek and chin against the pillow in a way that Q is beginning to recognize as satisfaction, wriggles his way out of his trousers as Q pulls them down. 

His arse is well developed rather than plump, but it will take a slap from the flat of Q’s hand. Pushes up in fact, inviting another. Q lets him have one more before reaching between James’ thighs instead, stroking back as far as his balls, where the skin is velvet soft but thickened with stripes of scar tissue. Q pretends he hasn’t noticed and doesn’t want to rip out the bowel of whichever bastard did that and make them eat it. 

Instead he continues to stroke just that small inch of flesh for a few seconds longer, forward and back, teasing again. 

James has now rolled as far onto his stomach as he is able, legs parted, panting softly. He wants to be paddled, to be fucked. He could ask, Q wouldn’t mind. He should ask. Only Q wants to toy with him, that much is obvious, and he wants to please Q, hear Q tell him how good he’s been. 

Time is slipping away and there’s slickness cushioning Q’s touch now, and another slap to his bottom when he tries to arch up into it. Harder this time. 

‘Not really much of a deterrent is it?’ Q mutters. That actually stung his hand a little bit and there’s a nice pink colour developing but the main effect is that James is now trying to hump the bed like the absolute bloody brat he is. Q decides to let him continue for a short while, long enough to work himself up to inevitable frustration when Q has had enough, bossing and manhandling him back onto his side. 

James doesn’t resist, just pulls on the tethers as if testing them, panting hard, feverish. For a moment it’s almost as if he’s trying to get free, has forgotten where he is. But then he subsides, forehead rested on his arms, taking long deep breaths to calm himself, and Q realises its displacement. He’s worked himself into a crazed sweat, the energy has to go somewhere. 

He pushes his head back into Q’s hand as he strokes through James’ hair, flattening around his ear and down the back of his neck where it just touches the line of the collar. Q’s fingers slide off it and down his back. 

‘On your knees.’ 

James can hardly move fast enough. He braces his palms against the base of the headboard as best he can with his wrists bound, kneels up, legs parting. 

‘That’s lovely.’ Because it is. The way this position pulls the lines of back and thighs taut, the press of James’ erection up towards his own belly, the bowed head with the collar. ‘That’s perfect.’ 

James can hear the cap of the bottle of lube click open, snap more sharply closed, and then one careful finger is finally sliding into him. 

‘Please.’ He’ll beg if he has to. There’s no such thing as pride here. 

‘Oh.’ Q breathes, approving. ‘You’re hungry for this aren’t you?’ 

‘Yes.’ He can feel the collar when he speaks, but everything else is subordinate to Q’s slick fingers now, teasing, preparing, finding secret places and setting them on fire. ‘Please.’ He whispers. ‘I’ll be good.’

‘I know.’ Q barely touches himself, already ridiculously aroused, and then there’s the slow slide into James’ body and the sound he makes, almost like a sob, pushing back before he remembers himself, still hungry for it. 

Neither of them wants this slow and gentle, and the bed shakes beneath them, the top of the headboard striking the wall. James braces and slips and braces again and barely notices because all he can feel is Q inside him, hard and demanding where Q’s fingers left him set and sensitive. There are shudders of sensation, quicker as Q moves quicker, running into one another, over one another, building and breaking him apart. 

‘Go on.’ Q’s voice is rich, dark, irresistible. ‘Give in, give it to me.’ 

James shatters, howls, does his best to be good for the long moments after his own orgasm when it’s too much sensation and Q’s clutch on his hips tightens to bruising force. 

Then they’re both falling, sliding slippery with sweat against one another, Q on top, murmuring orgasm-drugged approval in James' ear, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever want to move again.


	13. Pyjamas

‘Do you actually wear pyjamas?’

It’s early morning. Pallid sunlight is filtering through the bedroom curtains. The duvet, which Q carefully draped over them both after stripping James of the cuffs and Velcro ties, has been kicked again to the floor. 

Bond is magnificently naked, lounging on his back with his hands behind his head, and Q rests himself up on his elbow to appreciate the view better. Up until 20 seconds ago Q was asleep. Flat on his stomach – he’s always slept like that, it caused much worry when he was a tiny baby – and equally naked but in a soft focus photograph sort of way, one knee bent so that his left leg folds under the other, one arm tucked beneath his pillow. His nudity doesn't seem to bother him.

Hence Bond’s question. 

‘Mmm. Boring ones. Blue and grey stripes.’

‘I’m starting to believe you’re too English to be British.’ 

‘Earl Grey for breakfast? My father says it sounds like the sort of mistake a German spy would make in a black and white film.’

‘Or an American would make now.’

‘No Americans, sorry. I have a Belgian great-grandmother.’ Q yawns enormously and reaches over to the bedside table for his glasses. ‘And a Cornish grandfather. We drink rather a lot of tea.’

‘The Cornish?’ 

‘My family. Staple diet of weak tea and ginger biscuits. Endless debates over whose turn it is to put the kettle on.’ 

‘Large family?’

‘That’s classified, sorry.’

James nods, unsurprised. Q shouldn’t really be talking about the people that make him vulnerable. 

He wonders if he’s now one of those people. Or likely to be, if they keep doing what they’re doing. 

No doubt that’s one of M’s concerns. Something fresh to worry about next time Bond is captured. In addition to his wobble about his possibly divided loyalty if he has a Dom. 

James hadn’t told Q about that conversation. It would have only irritated him.

‘I realise I’m probably getting ahead of you both.’ Mallory had said - conversationally, as if he thought Bond would believe he’d just popped down to Q’s office for a social call and remembered something he needed to discuss. ‘But it’s my job to plan ahead, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose it must be.’ 

‘If you were.. _his_.’ He’d gone on, happily unaware that even Bond found his terminology archaic. ‘It’s only natural that there should be a shift in loyalties. We’ve seen it repeatedly with agents who’ve been in that position.’

‘With all due respect sir, I think you mean priorities, not loyalties. Unless all those subs who left in the 90s went to work for the Kremlin.’ 

The era of the exodus M had called it. Some bright spark in charge in ‘89 – a sub himself it turned out - had decided that the best way to deal with the difficulties thrown up by personal relationships was to ban them. It had been easier for Dominants, more emotionally equipped to argue with authority, more able to find partners outside that they didn’t mind lying to, but for nearly 6 years the resignations of subs had continued in a steady stream. 

M – the old M, who had been stationed in Hong Kong at the time – had never stopped lamenting the stupidity of losing all those talented operatives to the private sector. The ban had been lifted as soon as she was able, but for most it was too late. They never came back.

‘Which is not.’ She had added, in her usual acerbic manner. ‘A licence for agents to sleep their way through the building.’ 

Bond misses that bluntness. It meant he knew what was expected, even if he didn’t always choose to deliver. Whereas he never knows what Mallory is waiting for. Bond to tell him that the thing with Q isn’t serious enough to stir up this level of concern? 

Or is he, with his Dom hat on, telling Bond how he ought to be reacting?

Bloody irritating man. Bond might be MI6s’ bitch but he isn’t M’s. 

It occurs to James that Q has been very quiet while he was thinking. Probably because he’s falling asleep again, eyes closed and nose crinkling as his glasses slide down the bridge of it. 

James moves a little closer, and the mattress tilts, and Q opens his eyes slightly to see what the disturbance is. Wide enough to focus on James as he leans in, voice low and deferential in a way that goes straight to Q’s blood pressure. 

‘Can I touch you?’ James asks, and his hand hovers over the arm closest to him. 

‘As long as you’re careful.’ Q says, thinking as he says it, that it’s a ridiculous remark. Careful how? It’s not like Bond is going to shoot him by accident. But it’s the subtext that’s the real meat of the conversation isn’t it? That he’s agreeing to be touched as though he were doing Bond a favour, even though there’s nothing disagreeable about James’ hands on him; that he’s rolling lazily back to indicate where he’d like to be touched. That when James finally decides to use his mouth – he glances to Q for permission again first – Q slides one hand round the back of his skull so that he still has some measure of control. 

James likes that, closes his eyes and lets Q dictate how quickly this is going to be over. How desperate for oxygen he’s going to be by the end of it, chest heaving, almost light headed as Q wriggles down the bed and brings Bond to his own orgasm with absolutely ruthless efficiency. 

It's a shame that they can't just roll over and go back to sleep, but duty calls. As ever.


	14. Compartments

Bond has a message to report to M as soon as he gets in – a briefing, no doubt – and Q walks into a minor storm about prototype grenades not responding to thumb print recognition. He calms everyone down (laying blame is not the priority here) contacts the one agent who was actually issued with the things (against Q’s wish for more testing, as it happens) and gives him the numerical sequence to override the print lock.  
Then he lets two cups of tea go cold while he delicately detaches one of the faulty locks from a grenade without setting it off – they’re supposed to explode if interfered with - so that the senior techs can run a few experiments on when and why it doesn’t work. 

Then there’s the equipment for 007, who will be flying out to Calabria almost immediately. A modified rifle as well as his familiar handgun. That though is just a case of first putting the parts together to ensure it's all there and then dismantling again to fit it in the case. 

‘Good luck.’ Q says. ‘Take care out there.’ He won’t of course, far more likely he’ll infuriate the local Polizia, if not the people he’s directly working with in the Carabinieri, crash a car or get involved in some ridiculous moped chase. Q always says it anyway. 

‘Grazie.’ Bond replies, the usual slight smile as he takes the briefcase. 

They ignore the rest of Q branch, watching them surreptitiously, expecting to see a change of some sort. 

Unfortunately it’s not so easy to ignore Moneypenny. She corners Q in the canteen at lunch. 

‘Compartmentalising.’ She says. Accuses, really.

‘Yes.’ Q confirms. ‘You don’t have to, to work here, but it helps.’ He pulls a face, cutting through a solid mass of macaroni and white sauce and unimpressed by the consistency. ‘You could hang wallpaper with this.’ 

‘And yet you are eating it.’

‘I missed breakfast. Hardware issues.’ 

‘How is Murdeshwar anyway?’

‘Capable of memorising a 3 digit override code.’ Q says. ‘Complaining that we never send him anywhere with a decent café culture.’ 

‘I’ll make a note of it.’ Moneypenny lies cheerfully. ‘Q..’ She tails off, not quite sure whether she should continue. ‘..you can overdo that you know, compartmentalising.’

‘I know.’ Q says. He's not an idiot.

 

‘I wish they’d make up their bloody minds.’ Bond mutters darkly into his hotel room phone. It’s not a secure line, but both he and Q are very experienced at not saying anything that could possibly link them to the intelligence services. 

‘I wonder if it isn’t a good thing in a way. If either of them were consistent we might actually be tempted to listen.' Q is brisk, fresh from his commute and still towelling the rain out of his hair. 'How’s Italy by the way?’

‘Blue seas, sunny skies.’ There’s an incredible stretch of both outside Bond's balcony window, and the light slants across the room to the small desk where he’s sitting. It’s not surprising he’s feeling content.

’19 degrees, according to my data.’ Q agrees, as if the fact he has the data adds weight to Bond’s personal experience. ‘Are you on the bed?’ 

‘No.’ Bond pulls himself up. ‘Should I be?’ 

‘Oh I think so.’ Q says. ‘Don’t you?’

‘You do know I have to be somewhere else in 45 minutes.’ It’s a token protest. Q can hear the crisp collapse of feather pillows as he drops down anyway.

‘I also know that somewhere is a five minute walk, which means you can spare me 30 of those minutes and still have 10 to clean up.’ 

‘Well in that case…’ Bond makes a show of giving in, as if he hadn’t already. ‘..would you like to tell me what I’m meant to be doing?’


	15. Tie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond is alone and potentially vulnerable, so Q wants to keep this simple, really.

Q considers. Bond is alone and potentially vulnerable, so he wants to keep this simple, really. Nothing too restrictive. 

‘First you need to make yourself comfortable.’ He says. ‘Are you wearing a tie?’ 

‘Taking it off now.’

‘Good, loosen your collar as well. Kick your shoes off. Can you put me on speakerphone? Excellent.’ 

Q wanders into his bedroom as he talks, partly to get comfortable, partly because there’s a clock in there. He wants this to go at a certain pace, and he doesn’t want to have to keep moving his head away from his phone to check that it is. 

‘Now double over the tie and drape it over your right wrist, then slide the loose ends through. Don’t pull it tight yet, you want both wrists through, can you do that? You’ll probably have to pull it closed with your teeth.’

Q smiles as James makes an affirmative sounding noise, mouth occupied with fretting the silk of his tie as he tugs the noose together as he was ordered. 

‘Not too tight. You need to be confined, not hurt. Tuck your thumb round it to hold it in place.’ It would take less than half a second for James to get out of that if he needed to, the frictionless silk sliding from between his fingers and fluttering open at his wrists the moment he released the tension. 

‘Comfortable?’ Q asks.

‘Yes.’ The shaft of sunlight lights up the dove grey of the binding, warms his chest beneath the fine cotton of his shirt, Q’s voice is a soothing weight all its own, and James is very, very comfortable. Content to follow where Q leads.

It is awkward, but possible, to get the button of his trousers undone when he's told to, slide the zip down in stages. 

‘Excellent.’ Q says again, obviously able to hear the teeth of the zip as it parts. ‘Now relax a moment, close your eyes and just lie there. Imagine I’m watching you, exposed as you are. Gorgeous.’ 

Q’s voice is warm, appreciative. He has his eyes closed, picturing James quietly waiting, loosely bound. He’s not touching himself. Not yet.

‘The loose ends of the tie, take them in your right hand and stroke them through your fingers, twist them round your thumb. Not too tight.’ 

‘Not hurting myself.’ James confirms. Each movement pushes his wrist just a little against the binding. His hips shift too, minutely, seeking something more than the press of wool against his thighs, the tease of his shirt sliding up around his waist. 

‘Fold them into your palm. Play with them.’ Q’s clipped consonants blur when he talks like this, soothing and suggestive even without the words. James lets it all wash over him, nothing he needs to think about. Q will tell him when he wants to move on.

Q glances at the clock again, thinks about it. ‘Slide your hand under your shirt – both if it’s easier.’ 

Both is easier, fingers folded together, left palm pressed to the back of the right hand, closing and opening at Q’s prompting, fingertips stroking repeatedly over mere inches of skin so that Q can feel them by proxy, mirroring the movement on his own chest. He can hear James’ breathing quickening too. Not exertion – the man is in disgustingly good shape – but arousal. 

James raises his hips off the bed as Q tells him to move lower, trousers sliding a short way down, but not too far, and then there’s the silk between his fingers and the texture of lightweight wool brushing his knuckles, the way everything is confined, rough palm and glossy material smoothing over the length of his erection. 

‘Slowly.’ Q insists. ‘Half the pace you’re breathing.’ He has his eyes closed again, fingers twitching against the bedclothes. There’s a countdown running in his head, seconds and breaths and each lazy stroke of James’ hands over himself. 

He lets him go a little faster when it hits zero, faster again after a second lapse of time, keeping pace with the rise and fall of his chest, accelerating as that does, stimulation making him loud, panting.

Q is as well, more softly, breath catching in his throat rather than his chest, but flooded with heat from his breastbone to his groin, aching to touch, to press himself to the length of another body. 

‘Go on.’ He whispers, barely audible to himself, shakes off a little of the befuddlement to speak more clearly. Give the orders Bond wants. ‘Faster now, let it take you.’ They’re going to ruin that tie if they haven’t already, and the sound of James coming, harsh and guttural and perfect, the wanton destruction of a piece of Bond’s impeccable wardrobe, the shattering of the perfectly put together persona that belongs to MI6, makes Q hot again with the heady illusion of possession. 

It’s not easy to keep his voice steady, but he controls it somehow, eager to keep James from moving just yet. 

‘On your side, if that’s more comfortable.’ It does seem to be, for James, he can hear the mattress shift beneath him. 

‘You can stay as you are a few minutes longer.’ Q murmurs. ‘Curled up and just a little filthy. I like you like that.’


	16. Cave

Somehow – Bond is officially with allies, so constant monitoring is not procedure, and Q only hears the details much later – James ends up lost in a cave network with two of the police officers, stranded without a mobile signal or food, having to draw on the walls to mark where they’ve been so they don’t go round and round in circles.

After 48 hours, by which time Mallory is talking about employing local guides – assuming there are any guides familiar with the tunnels – they emerge, dehydrated and hungry and just a bit smug that despite the setback, the mission itself was a success. 

‘We split the banditti into three groups.’ Bond speaks to Tanner before Q, respecting the official chain of command, but Tanner lets him listen in. ‘After that it was easy to take them out. We’ve got the key players in the smuggling ring trussed up for the Italians to deal with, and our mark will be handed over to us as soon as the official escort arrives.’

‘Banditti?’ Tanner asks.

‘It’s what the locals are calling them.’

‘How picturesque.’ Q murmurs. 

There’s a moment’s pause while James realises Tanner has him on the speaker. He raises his voice, hardens it slightly. 

‘If that’s Q ask him if Kat brought back my sake for me.’

Tanner turns to raise an eyebrow at Q, who nods. It’s safely tucked away in the lockable drawer of his desk. 

‘It seems so.’ Tanner is slightly addicted to non committal verbs: ‘it seems’, ‘it appears’, ‘it has transpired’ in a way which would drive Q up the wall if he was Tanner’s Dom. 

Apparently She is a politician though, so she’s probably used to it. That may even be where Tanner picked it up.

‘The escort should be with you in three hours. Any injuries we should know about?’ 

‘None. Just some bruises.’

‘Medical will be expecting to see you when you get back.’

Just a quick once over, to check there’s nothing more serious. Other than that no-one pays too much attention. Agents put themselves in the way of harm. Injury is expected. 

Only Q, mapping carefully over the skin, tongue venturing out to press delicately where his fingers would hurt too much, knows the real extent of the damage. 

James shudders and stretches himself out under the attention.

He was in two minds whether to do this, agree to another encounter so soon, but the brush of Q’s hand across the back of his own as he gave him the bottle Kat had left for him decided it again. Even though he'd found himself thinking on the plane back that this is becoming something it wasn't before. Something he's not ready to admit. 

There’s a need that itches, neglected, just beneath his skin, that lies sleek and quiet under Q’s touch. But that can't work. He's not Q's. He can't be. Doms are possessive. He'll try to restrain Bond - not just with buckles and soft rope, crossed behind his back, hands tied so that he can't resist Q's caresses - but with words and expectations. James can't give in to that. He can't do his job if he's restricted.

He forgets all that though, when they're alone. Loses his breath, loses his mind. Twisting the sheets beneath himself as Q teases him relentlessly. 

He forgets everything.


	17. House

Bond has a few days off, only reporting into HQ briefly for physical training and psych evaluation. The usual downtime expected although not always possible after missions.

Naturally Q would like to spend as much of the break with him as possible, but there is work to be done and cats to consider.

‘Unless you’d like to come home with me?’ Q suggests. ‘Although I don’t know where you’d park.’

‘I'll take a taxi.’

Bond doesn’t know quite what he expected of Q’s home. He knew it was a mews – a former stable with hayloft above, all the light coming through the front of the building. The street itself is surprisingly narrow, and someone has planted trees in tubs to narrow it even more. A car could drive in but the one spot it could turn appears to be marked as exclusive to the florists that backs on to the place. They’ve a van there already, and a dump bin with roses and cellophane heaped out of the top.

It’s actually quite secure, with a camera over the main entrance and the florists locked up for the night, but it feels very open. A couple of people have garage doors standing ajar where Q has a second front door, hinged to make a mirror image of the first, painted the same dark green as the long sash windows. Q can drive, Bond knows he can, but he doesn’t bother in London.

Bond realises he’s treating this as reconnaissance, has a private smile to himself before he rings the bell.

Q lets him in, stands back, aware that James is nervous from the 360° he gives the place as soon as he steps in. Judging that the best way to deal with that is to let him explore, Q goes to make coffee. He’s still in sight, the kitchen is open to the front of the building, an area that spans from floor to ceiling and the full width of the building. The walls are pale grey, the woodwork, apart from the parquet flooring and the staircase, the same dark green James noticed outside.

There’s an art slope on a table in the front of the building where all the light is and a disembowelled laptop next to it. There’s also an architect’s cabinet – long flat drawers for technical drawings – and two stacks of metal boxes which prove, when James explores them, to have papers and electrical components and tools in one and artist materials and, oddly, building blocks in the other.

‘Those are my sister’s.’ Q explains, handing James his coffee. ‘She’s a civil engineer.’

James sips his coffee, doesn’t mention that he didn’t ask for it, continues to be nosy. The kitchen is fairly standard, although he can’t help noticing there are more tea plates than normal plates and hardly any glassware or cutlery at all. The cafetiere is pink. Q shrugs when James eyes it.

‘I don’t really drink coffee, remember?’

‘Your sister’s?’ Q doesn’t hesitate this time. He’s been anticipating the question, can’t expect James to trust him and not give something in return.

‘Yes. She lived here for a bit before she moved abroad. In fact, I only recently bought her out.’

‘You’re close.’ It’s not a question.

‘We’re twins.’

James moves through to the cosy area under the upstairs rooms, where the ceiling is lower and there’s a glass wall to deaden the noise from the kitchen – heavy bricks with the faint avocado tint left by recycling. There’s a sofa bed, and in a large chest on which the cat basket sits (completely ignored by the cats, who appear to prefer the couch) there is bedding.

A second identical chest contains women’s clothes, neatly folded.

‘What’s her name, your sister?’ He shouldn’t ask. This sister, this twin, is an enormous vulnerability.

‘Jennifer.’ Q considers briefly, decides. No more secrets. ‘Jennifer Trethowan.’

The cautious tic at the side of James’ mouth is almost certainly a smile.

‘Pleased to meet you Mr Trethowan.’

‘Xavier.’ Now they’re both smiling, across the five feet or so that separate them, unbothered by the fact that they must look faintly ridiculous.

James breaks eye contact first, not because he’s not comfortable, but because he is.

‘So..’ He says slowly. ‘Where do you want me?’


	18. Hotel

‘I still don’t understand why MI5 aren’t supposed to be picking this one up.’ Q grumbles, although not much. The fact that James’ latest assignment is in the UK is really nothing to complain about. 

‘Just because they’re in this country doesn’t make it domestic.’ James swirls his martini round the glass. Watches the current target’s very much younger girlfriend move out into the roof garden. _He’s_ not here yet – flight delayed due to engine trouble – and James can’t see anyone else watching her at the moment. He likes to think he would see, given his training. It’s a good moment to approach her. First though, he needs to check something with Q. 

‘You realise the quickest way to do this is probably going to be through the lady?’ 

‘Yes, I had realised.’ Q wonders if James is expecting him to be jealous, even whether perhaps he should be. But it’s not as if James is going to get on his knees for this woman to stroke his hair. Or laugh with his forehead pressed against her thigh because one of the cats is pestering for similar attention. 

Q pushes the memory away. Now is not the time.

‘I’ve been trying to get a facial match for the last few minutes.’ He says. ‘She only entered the country a few days ago - it shouldn’t be too hard.’

In fact it takes nearly six minutes, which James occupies in sipping his drink and ignoring the curious glances the barman is sending his way, trying to place him from his outfit and posture and choice of drink. He tries not to be impatient. The delay is probably a good sign. It means she isn’t known to the security services already. 

The faint whisper of a reopening connection refocuses his attention. ‘Got her.’ Q says quietly. ‘Anna Carmichael. Attended Royal Holloway, has a degree in astronomy and a TEFL.’

‘Teffle?’

‘Qualification to teach English as a foreign language. She was doing so in Sri Lanka up to a year ago. Then she just dropped out of sight.’

‘Presumably when she took up with Blunden.’

‘Hmm. No accounting for taste I suppose. She’s only 23.’

‘Are you suggesting I go for the paternal approach?’ 

‘Whatever approach you like but do it quickly. Our man’s already left the airport.’

‘Astronomy.’ James mutters to himself, ponders direct and indirect approaches for the last few mouthfuls of his martini. Orders another to take outside, to where a young man – gold glitter and red silk shirt, like someone’s idea of Christmas – is leaning gloomily on the railing near the woman he's really interested in, gazing out at the night sky. He’s clearly not in the mood, but it’s easy enough for James to slip into the role of oblivious Dom and approach him anyway, taking up a position a little too close and pointing to a red dot on the horizon to ask if he thinks its Venus. 

A few elementary mistakes later and the astronomy graduate can’t help but interrupt. From that to buying them both a drink is a very short step. Fortunately, and as anticipated, the young man is then collected by the reason he was staring into the middle distance, and led away with a possessive hand on the back of his neck. 

Clearly Q isn’t the only person with that particular fetish. 

James only sends one glance after him, turns back to the woman. She’s wearing a loosely braided collar that trails into her cleavage in a string of knots and could be mistaken for a necklace. Or a leash. Bond lets his eyes stray down the line of it just briefly and smiles a smile nicely composed of insolence and apology. 

Q turns the earpiece down to an unobtrusive level. There’s no need to monitor this bit. 

‘Would anyone like to get me a cup of tea since I’m glued here for a while?’ He asks. ‘Not you Jake, concentrate on that wiring.’

‘Yes sir.’ 

He's not altogether surprised to see that people are looking at him oddly, almost expectantly. 

He ignores them. Turns his attention to something else, confident that James will contact Q if he needs him. 

Less than an hour later there’s a voice in his ear. 

‘Q?’

‘Still here 007.’

‘I talked to the girl. Very briefly. She’s too bloody scared to open her mouth. I get the impression the only thing that’s stopped her from running up to this point is she knows he’d come after her.’ 

‘Did you tell her..’

‘I didn’t tell her anything. She’d panic and he’d see it. I’d try and undermine her loyalty but loyalty’s not the issue.’

‘You mean you’d sleep with her?’ Q does his best not to make it sound like an accusation. It’s certainly not meant as an accusation. Still, there’s a pause on James’ end that makes him want to rush in and fill the silence. He holds back, waits for James to respond in his own time. 

‘If that’s what it took.’ He says eventually. Somewhat stiffly.

‘I’m glad I don’t have your job.’ Q observes. ‘I couldn’t keep a straight face long enough.’ 

‘You’re a lousy shot too.’ Bond points out. Q sighs.

‘No respect, that’s your problem. So, since you don’t think seduction would be effective in this instance, what else do we have?’ 

‘I thought I might dress up as a steward, get in the room that way.’

‘Hmm. I could nobble the wifi easily enough. Or the television. Which would they notice first do you think?’ 

Q’s staff are still staring. He continues to ignore them.


	19. Rope

‘Dead.’ Bond folds the slim wrist in his palm to check for a pulse, but he already knew the girl was dead when he entered the room. The leash type necklace she wore is twisted round her throat and the bed post, her face swollen. ‘Strangled. Someone she was intimate with.’ 

‘How intimate?’

‘Enough to let them put a noose round her neck in play.’ 

‘Blunden.’ 

‘Possibly.’ Bond says, but Q can tell he doesn’t really think it. Not that it's very important at this stage.

‘You need to get out of there.’ He says. James agrees, tries the balcony doors as Q continues to mull. 

‘Who else would it be if not Blunden?’ Q asks. ‘I expect he found out about her sleeping with the bodyguard.’ 

‘So why hasn’t he had Mayfair dealt with as well?’ The lock finally gives to Bond’s attempts to pick it. He daren’t go back out through the suite. ‘If you’d killed a man’s lover would you still rely on him to protect you?’

The night is dark, but Bond can just make out the white shape of the next balcony down in the feeble light through drawn curtains. He’s got minutes, maybe seconds, before he’s found. He eases himself over and swings back and forth as far as he can. Momentum is the key here. Just enough and not too much.

Q catches up with his train of thought just as he drops, landing as lightly as possible on the black and white tiles. 

‘Are you suggesting Mayfair did it?’

‘Well Blunden was the brains, but I bet Mayfair was the blunt instrument. Be quiet a moment.’ James crouches below the railing, poised, listening. ‘Whereas I was just set up as primary suspect.’

‘Yes I realised that much. Are you out of the room?’ 

‘Balcony below. Going down the drainpipe now.’ 

‘Try not to get your tuxedo spoilt. It’ll look suspicious.’ 

James only snorts, which might be agreement, exertion, annoyance or a combination of the three. 

‘Anyway.’ And as he reaches the safety of the ground his fingers stroke the notebook in his pocket. ‘I’ve got what I was sent for.’

‘Mission accomplished.’ Q agrees. ‘The car’s waiting at the rendezvous.’ 

This time there is no insane car chase. Its likely Blunden doesn’t realise anything’s missing yet. That would tally with James’ assessment that Blunden thought him after the girl rather than anything else. Just a random maintenance man with a crush. The perfect fall guy for murder. 

‘But why not set Mayfair up in that case?’ Mallory asks. 

‘007 thinks Mayfair was a part of it. There’s no actual proof, but in light of their statements to the local police throwing the blame everywhere but on each other, I’m inclined to agree with him.’ 

‘Because she wanted to leave?’

‘Because she knew too much for either of them to let that happen.’

Mallory’s fastidious face settles into an expression of disgust before he dismisses the subject with a shake of his head. ‘007 alright?’

‘Just another black eye and a minor sprain. I believe Tanner’s debriefing him now, as per protocol.’ 

‘Yes of course.’

‘And then I thought I might take him to dinner afterwards. Assuming nothing crops up that needs my attention.'

Mallory’s expression is unreadable, and Q has a long moment to wonder what he’s thinking before the man nods and dismisses him. 

‘Good idea. Well, I won’t keep you Q.’

Q nods back, unconsciously parroting the gesture. ‘Thank you sir.’ 

 

'Dinner?' James asks. 'So - we do dinner now?' Q ignores him.

‘Personally I have a hankering for swordfish but I need to call the restaurant now in that case. Or I could hack their booking system and bump someone else out of their table, but I do usually try not to do that sort of thing too often.’

‘Because you promised your mother you’d only use your superpowers for good?’

‘Something like that.’ 

'It's not a fish place is it?' James asks, as if that's going to have any impact on his decision when he's already not said no. 

'No, they do a nice juicy steak.' Q smirks in spite of himself. 'It'll go well with your black eye.'


	20. Steak

Bond’s tie is a blue that’s almost grey, shot through with silver threads. His suit a darker grey, jacket unbuttoned, which is unlike him. 

It tempts Q to reach and tease out the end of the tie.

‘Take it off.’ He says. Bond does, still with that faint, subtly pleased, smile. He rolls it around his thumb and almost puts it in his pocket – but Q is holding his hand out for it, pockets it himself as James loosens his top button. 

They’re both aware of Moneypenny at the top of the stairs, watching curiously, and of course she knows they know. You don’t last long in espionage if you miss that sort of thing. 

They’re completely back to front, the two of them, but clearly they don’t care. 

‘So they really are going to dinner?’ Mallory joins her at the railings as the two men leave, Bond just a fraction ahead of Q, Q’s hand on his sleeve to steer him. ‘After..’

‘After?’ Moneypenny prompts.

‘Well after everything else.’

‘So it would seem sir.’ The 'sir' is a concession. Mallory is coming round, but he’s still unhappy. 

‘Would Q really have let him sleep with the woman do you think?’

‘Yes.’

Mallory sighs. ‘I suspect I’m old fashioned. I can’t say I’d be happy if any submissive of mine were exposed to the risks our agents are.’ 

Moneypenny only smiles in response, amused by the idea of Mallory’s wife - who has always put Moneypenny in mind of a slumberous and slightly overfed dormouse – as an MI6 agent. The smile fades a little though as she follows the thought through. 

‘Better us than the likes of Blunden.’ She says. ‘Or Mayfair.’ 

‘Yes.’ M concedes as they head back towards the office. ‘There is that.’

 

Bond is surprised how much he likes the restaurant. It’s not the sort of place he goes to when he’s on mission. Smaller, less fussy and surprisingly free of blindspots. 

Or not surprisingly. There’s a reason Q has chosen to come here, and it’s not just the unexpectedly good steak. Clearly Q understands that he can’t make James feel safe by pretending there is no danger. Only by allowing him to reckon for it. 

The wine is also good, but Q is not drinking. 

‘I do drink.’ He says. ‘But not tonight.’ 

‘Plans?’ James asks. 

Q reaches across the table before answering, touches the back of James’ injured hand as lightly as possible. ‘This needs to heal first.’ 

‘You’re taking care of me?’ Bond catches himself up, feeling foolish. Exasperated. He sets his cutlery down on his half empty plate. ‘Of course you are. I should have realised.’

‘If you’re going to storm out in offence at least eat your steak first.’ Q says evenly.

‘I’m not going to storm out in offence.’ James lowers his voice. ‘But I can look after myself.’ 

‘That’s not the point. I want to look after you.’ Q counters. Unlike James he keeps his tone and gaze steady. ‘Don’t fight it.’ It's clear that he's entirely serious.

It takes a few seconds, because James knows he's not just accepting tonight or tomorrow. Not anymore. But in the end he does accept. Looks away first. Resumes his meal. 

‘Thank you.’ Q says.


End file.
